


Due Diligence

by the_ragnarok



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-27
Updated: 2016-09-27
Packaged: 2018-08-18 03:32:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8147719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: Sex pollen is much nicer to encounter when you've worked out consent in advance.





	

For hours, John writhes and twists in the sheets, panting, eyes screwed shut in pain. Every so often, he turns over, ruts against the mattress, shudders in climax that brings him little release, and then the whole cycle begins again.

It is wretched to see. "Are you sure--?" Harold begins.

"Stay away," John says through gritted teeth. "I don't, I can't...." he trails off with another agonized moan, this time coming untouched, another damp stain spreading across the crotch of his pants.

Whatever it is that Dane's people are using, it was a powerful substance to reduce John to this state. Harold is almost tempted to defy John's words, come close to offer whatever comfort he can: but of course hard reason comes splashing down, offering words like _violation_ and _long term damage_ to temper Harold's resolution.

Still, eventually, it ended. John lies panting in the wreckage of the bed. 

"If it happens to you," he says, suddenly, "if they dose you, do what you need to do. Don't worry about me."

Harold blinks a number of times, astonished. "Excuse me?"

"I don't want you hurting like this," John says, grimly. "We'll try to make sure they never get you at all, but if they do, don't worry about my consent."

The long hours have worn away at Harold's composure. He snaps, "Yes, certainly, when I think about your life the first thought that occurs to me is 'People have taken far too much care with John Reese's consent!'"

John's mouth opens. Harold has a pang of conscience before realizing John is laughing, soundlessly.

"Really," John says, once he's done making fun of Harold's having basic ethics. He sounds outright fond saying, "It'll be fine."

"Fine? Fine." Harold closes the distance between them, putting his mouth against John's. He meant it as a harsh gesture, _reductio ad absurdum_ of John's ridiculous martyrdom, but his lips soften without his conscious intention, perhaps reacting to the tiredness of John's form.

And John, of course, is no help, opening up to him, making sweet, startled noises, wrapping long arms around Harold's neck as though he wants nothing more than Harold kissing him.

"I told you so," John says, once they came up for air. 

Harold grumbles, but he has to allow this is the case. It does occur to him: "If we're aiming for a state of, ah, standing permission to touch," he runs a covetous hand over John's midsection, to illustrate, "we might want to build a baseline, so to speak, when we're relatively unimpaired."

John nuzzles at Harold's throat. "I don't think I could get hard right now," he says - with a hint of _apology_ of all the ridiculous things, "but I could get started on you." His hand worms its way into Harold's pants, where Harold was ruining the fit and is soon at risk of ruining the fabric as well.

~~

It's admittedly more than a little satisfying to be able to justify their frequent late morning starts over the next week. Many of Dane's men are still at large, after all. Their trysts aren't just indulgence, they're due diligence.

So when John comes in through the earpiece saying, "I've been hit," he sounds much less grim than last time. 

Harold exhales. "The safe house on 21rd is closest to your current location," he says. "I will meet you there."

~~

The sight that greets Harold when he arrives is worlds apart from their previous experiences with being drugged: John lounges on the bed, languorous. He writhes, but where before his motions were choppy and abrupt, they are now sensual, in anticipation.

"It's going to start hurting soon," John says when he notices Harold, so Harold quickly undresses and lies beside him on the bed, stroking John's limbs, kissing him. 

Soon John tilts up his pelvis in mute request and Harold rummages through the bedside drawer to turn up lubrication. He presses fingers into John with the expertise he'd learned over the last few days.

"Tell me," Harold says. He's never seen this expression on John's face before, nothing so openly blissful.

John's eyes are closed. "It's so good." His voice cracks as Harold rocks into him, as Harold strokes his cock. "Harold, so, so, so good." He draws the word out until he runs out of breath.

Harold finds himself wanting to do more, even after they've both come. John is snuggled up to him, still hard, gazing adoringly up at Harold.

He keeps on playing with John's cock, careful to be gentle now that John's spent. If John is overstimulated... well, Harold isn't sure he'd be able to tell, and certainly John doesn't seem to mind.

"What would you like?" Harold rolls John's balls in his other hand.

John groans, rutting up into Harold's hands. His stomach is sheened with sweat. The muscles there ripple when Harold bows his head to lick said sweat off. "Just touch me."

"How specific," Harold says dryly. His hands' present engagement seems to be doing the job, however, so he sticks to that.

A moment later, an idea strikes. "Can I try something?" Harold asks.

Through the haze of his present arousal, John still manages to raise his eyebrows.

"Of course," Harold says. "Forget I asked."

John is always so responsive to contact, and his current high has only increased his tactile inclinations. Harold arranges them together, John's back pressed against his chest, and reaches into his drawer for something he hasn't used in a while.

"What's that?" John says, eyeing the little black bullet-shaped object with interest.

"Something I hope will make you feel good," Harold says.

"I already d--" John's words are cut off abruptly as Harold turns on the little vibrator and presses it to John's perineum.

"Mm," Harold says, enjoying John's glassy-eyed expression immensely. "You were saying?"

John doesn't answer, instead swallowing audibly before tipping his head back to lie against Harold's shoulder.

John doesn't quite come again, though he does have little shuddering, moaning episodes. During those Harold presses the vibrator harder and pets John's chest, easing him through the intense sensation.

Harold observes with fascination the way John's cock variably hardens and softens, never fully wilting. It doesn't seem to make a difference to John's response, which is consistently greedy for more pleasure.

Perhaps greedy is the wrong word: certainly John deserves more pleasure than he routinely gets. Call it hunger, rather: legitimate need.

"Harold," John says, between bouts of panting. "Stop being existential and pay attention to me." He spreads his hips a little, arresting Harold's attention.

"Yes," Harold says, stroking through the come and sweat on John's stomach with his free hand. "You're very attractive, I am aware."

With those words, John's body melts fully, finally: his cock gives a few final spurts and goes quiescent at last.

John still seems suffused with glow from the drug. He squirms until Harold lets him turn around. He wraps his arms around Harold, murmuring, "Fuck me?" into his ear.

It would take a much stronger man than Harold to refuse, and why would he even want to?


End file.
